


Remember

by MistressDragonFlame



Series: Memory [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Loss, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 04:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressDragonFlame/pseuds/MistressDragonFlame
Summary: Lavellan didn’t know who the stranger that came into her meager campsite was, but she didn’t think she should trust that bald headed elf.





	Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Beta – bdafic  
> Notes – A continuation from “Forget,” so if you’ve not read that one, please do so or you’ll be lost. 
> 
> Aravels here are a mix from Origins where they were very much like Romani carriages, and DA2/DA:I, where they were tiny things not actually meant to carry anything. This is an rogue-class Lavallen, but slight enough to be mostly ignorable.

Lavellan awoke with a small jerk and a gasp. The dream disappeared from her mind like sand through lax fingers, until she couldn’t recall anything more than darkness and a vague sense of sorrow. She looked around, confused for a moment before, yes, that’s right, she was in her aravel.

She pushed the pile of furs and blankets from her person and sat up in the darkened interior. The sun was just starting to peek through the gaps in the cloth covering, but her Elven eyes never had an issue seeing in low light. As she sat up, she noticed that her left arm was bound tightly to her, palm firmly on her chest. That was odd. She didn’t remember how that came to be. She scavenged through her memories, looking for the cause as she ran her fingers over the wrappings. They were well done—neat and clean—and layered with a protective leather sheath over the lot of it. It was strapped to her chest with an Dalish belt, but was held firmly for all that it appeared improvised. Only two of her fingers were left with enough room to wiggle, and those were wrapped in a mitten styled glove.

She had been… traveling. Traveling to the Conclave, for the Keeper. Yes, that was right. She had volunteered, and was sent with her clanmate, Maharon. Where was he now? Perhaps he could shed some light on what had happened to her arm. She hadn’t even had real contact with the shemlens yet, and was already injured! Oh, if her friends could only see her now, they would tease her something fierce.

She looked around again for signs of his presence, but instead her eyes caught on a previously unseen letter, folded over a small lever on the main mast.

She wiggled down the bedroll until she was close enough to pluck up the letter. She was a little clumsy with only one hand—her left arm didn’t feel injured, just bound and oddly… full?—but she was able to unfold the letter easily enough.

‘ _To the clumsiest spy in all of Thedas,_ ’ it began. She scowled. Clumsy? Who was he to say _she_ was clumsy? He was the one who tripped and caused half of the Halla to escape their holding pens just last spring!

‘ _I have done the noble thing and taken the Halla to the nearest human village. With you and your arm, I stepped up to pay the Halam'shivanas,_ ’ She snorted at that. He was only on this trip because he couldn’t be dissuaded from his curiosity over the human war. A trip to a village for him was hardly a ‘sacrifice of duty.’ ‘ _It shouldn’t take me more than two days or so to return with the supplies we need to finish repairs. You hit your head when you fell, so be careful of it, though I couldn't find any wounds. I’ve left more than enough supplies for you, so don’t over stress while I’m gone! And for Creator’s sake, leave your arm_ bound _this time! Keeper would have my head if it fell off before we got back._ — _Maharon_ ’

Typical of him to be as annoyingly over-dramatic on paper as he was in real life.

She couldn’t remember him having any proficiency with the Halla, though she supposed it could have improved since the disastrous spill when he had been forced to work there in compensation. And did his handwriting improve? It was a firm, if slightly sloppy hand. She couldn’t recall the last time she saw his writing, except vague memories of when they were children and it was only legible to himself. She supposed he could have improved in this as well in the years between.

She folded the letter back into quarters and placed it on the tiny shelf next to her bathing supplies. Bumping her head would account for the confusion, but she otherwise felt fine, so she didn’t think she needed to worry.

Crawling into her morning-chilled clothes was always an unpleasant thing in the fall began to hint of the winter to come, but she managed to do so despite her handicap with minimal chill creeping in. As proper habit, she tidied in the tiny interior space, putting her furs and sleeping blankets in their proper place under the floorboard before she undid the door to the aravel.

Cool morning air greeted her, and she took a full breath. There was a low lying fog, wisps floating lazily around hip height, and she could smell just a hint of the sea. Once Maharon came back they would probably only have a day or two before they met at the waypoint to drop their aravel off with Clan Alerion and acquire tickets across the Waking Sea. She would be sad to be rid of the aravel she currently called home, and instead reliant on shemlen tents, but she knew it would be impossible to take the landship onto the sea boat with her. Clan Alerion would return it once their mission was done for little more cost than the news they’d bring. It was a fair trade.

Stretching as best she could, she looked back towards the aravel, and now saw the propped axle that used to hold a wheel. Getting closer, she noticed that the wheel itself was cracked almost all the way in half and was lying on the ground where it had been removed. _Mother Mythal!_ It looked like it had taken quite a fall. Was that how she came to her injury as well? It would make sense, but she couldn’t remember…

Frowning, she shook her head. It didn’t matter now. She’d not get any answers from a wheel.

She set about the morning chores of gathering wood and getting a fire started. There had been a small pile stacked semi-neatly near a cleared area where remnants of a previous burn were, enough for a breakfast fire, but she went and fetched more anyway so she wouldn’t have to later.

An armful or three later—it was particularly difficult to carry and grab wood with one arm in a sling, she found—she felt she had enough, and started a fire. Once it was going well enough not to worry it might die on her unexpectedly, she set up the metal pole and placed a cauldron over the fire to heat. She then fetched water from the jugs on the back of the aravel with her soon-to-be breakfast bowl and dumped it into the cauldron to heat. Another trip and dump, this time with oats, she stirred the mix and waited for it all to start heating properly.

She took a look around her campsite as she waited. The morning sun had just barely started to shine through the canopy, lighting everything in a crisp glow; it was very peaceful here. The trees around her were monstrous things, reaching pointed fingers towards the sky. The clearing, if one stretched the term to match the area she was in, was mostly bare dirt and exposed tree roots, with a fallen tree she was currently using as a seat. It was situated in a valley between two mountains, each peak solitary as they stretched above the tree line. She tried to remember if she recognized this area from the brief overview of the map she’d looked at before their departure, but she didn’t recall seeing it on their route. In fact, she didn’t think the map had any indication of mountains besides the Frostbacks.

It probably wasn’t the best map.

The cauldron now boiling, she used a stick to carefully swing the metal arm away from the fire to allow the mixture to cool and soak. Adding a handful of dried berries that she had located stashed away in her personal drawer, she was glad that Maharon was gone since he would only sulk over it since he never knew the benefit of holding a supply for later. As she waited for the meal to finish cooking, she made her way back to the aravel to prep for the day. First raising the canvas roof from its sleeping position to its day standing position before gathering her supplies for a morning cleanse. It took a little longer than expected, as she couldn’t locate her polished brass mirror—she huffed, giving up eventually. Maharon probably took it—the vain man.

She ate her now slightly cool meal and began to brush her hair out from her sleeping braids. It was more difficult than she’d think, with one hand, but she managed it, and brushed until there were no more snags. She got up and washed the cauldron and her eating utensils, set them to dry, and then wet her bathing cloth. Briskly, as it was still cold water in the cool morning, she wiped down as best she could while carefully avoiding the bandages, rinsing the cloth as needed. She’ll bathe properly once they came to a river, but in the meantime she made do. She was even somewhat excited to try out a human bath once they got to the Conclave. They had those in the shemlen taverns, right? She was able to use the fingers of her left hand—the two that were left poking out of the sling—to help wring out the cloth, but unfortunately got some water down her chest for the effort.

Wrinkling her nose, she set the bathing cloth aside to dry and used the towel placed there to help dry her face and hands—then attempted to dry the clammy, wet spot on her shirt. She’d have to either change her shirt or suffer until it dried. She decided on changing, and gathered up the bathing supplies into a neat bundle, tied with the towel, before heading back into the aravel.

She made it part of the way to the entrance before, without warning, her arm erupted in bright, green light, and the most agonizing pain she had ever felt. It raced up from her palm, curling over her shoulders and squeezing her lungs. She screamed, kicking futilely against the ground; she didn’t even remember falling. Her right hand fiercely seized her agonized wrist through the bindings as if she could stem the flow of sensation.

The pain only grew worse, and worse...

**XX**

When her eyes opened, the mid-morning sun blinking lazily down at her.

Why was she on the ground? She raised her head up and looked around, wondering where she was. Yes, that’s right, she was on her way to the Conclave, for her Keeper. Sitting up, she realized that one of her arms—her left—was tightly bound against her chest. It ached, not too badly, but particularly her wrist. That was odd.

She stood, brushing off the dirt and twigs as she looked around the clearing. She eyed the aravel with the very obviously broken wheel. When did that happen? Perhaps it was tied to her arm? Maharon... yes, he was coming with her to the Conclave. Where was he? Out hunting? Who was she kidding, he was probably locating a stream to bathe in; he couldn’t hunt a nug trapped in an aravel.

She looked around the clearing, and noticed the smoldering remains of a breakfast fire, and her bathing supplies, bundled neatly. Her throat itched slightly, as if raw. Was she recovering from a cold? She didn’t think she felt feverish.

She went into the aravel, and found a note on the shelf where her supplies went. Oh, of course he’d stick it in this cubby rather than somewhere obvious, like pinned to the mast. Man had the attention span of a da’len.

More settled now she knew where her missing clan mate was and a quasi-answer to her forgetfullness, she decided to do some repair work she noticed was left out. If she was coming down from something, she would heal better if she didn’t do strenuous work in the meantime. Her tunic, made from lambswool, had gotten a tear at the cuff and since she could still feel the chill in the air, it would be better to be fixed before attending the Conclave.

She spent the next hour or so stitching the shirt until the cuff was as mended as it could be. It took longer because she couldn’t use her other arm, which still ached, and thus had to creatively utilize her knees. Once finished, she smiled and folded it up, placing it in it’s storage location. She stood from her pile of blankets, having used them as her seat, and she exited the aravel. It was edging into afternoon, and so she set about making a fire for lunch. Once the flames were stable, she went back into the aravel to pull some food. Salted venison, oats, and some vegetables would make a fine stew, and she planned on making enough for dinner as well, so she’d not have to clean more dishes than necessary. She hated cleaning dishes, it was the worst chore she could never seem to escape from. She gathered the supplies in a bundle, then turned to leave the aravel

She was not expecting the strange elf at the edge of her camp when she emerged.

It was so startling, her foot that had been on the step leading out involuntarily backtracked until she was standing back inside her landship, nearly stumbling. He was very plainly dressed, a green woolen tunic draping over darker green leggings. His feet were wrapped as hers, only bound with some sort of darker leather. He was bald, and a simple pack seemed to be on his back. Most importantly, he was carrying a staff.

Mage.

She glanced to the side, where her hunting dagger hung next to the door. She could drop her food satchel and grab it in an instant, should she need to. She’d be hindered by her injured arm, but she would only need be defensive and get away; everything about this aravel was intended to be disposable. Couldn’t be too careful in war, her Keeper had reasoned.

“Hello,” he greeted. He didn’t, wisely, move any closer, but he was watching her with an intensity that seemed to vanish between one blink and the next.

“Good day,” she returned neutrally enough, having no reason to be rude just yet. Her voice stuck, just a bit, as if she hadn’t spoken in a long time. She cleared her throat; it was probably remnant from her cold.

Slowly, she deposited her satchel inside the door and took up her dagger with slight of hand, tucking the weapon into the small of her back where he wouldn’t be able to tell and hopefully hadn’t noticed. She didn’t know if she should trust this strange elf—a _mage,_ in the middle of a shemlen war between templars and mages—so she took the reasonable caution that she could. He could be just a front man, a distraction so others could ambush her. She took a sweep of her surroundings from her position, looking for any anomaly in the tree-line.

“I was traveling, and saw the smoke from your fire,” he spoke again when it was apparent she wasn’t going to start conversation. “I was curious as to who was out here.” His eyes took in her form, and lingered for a moment on the bindings around her arm, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Odd place for you to travel,” she stated, stepping down finally and avoiding his unasked question. She stopped only a step away from her aravel, and took another look around while keeping him in the corner of her eye. Her left arm felt odd, and she rubbed at it absently. “There isn’t a road around here for miles,” She didn’t know this for a fact, but knew that her’s and Maharon’s route intentionally avoided such things where they could.

A small, tiny smile curled at his lips. “I don’t usually use roads. I’m a wanderer, and I look for lost artifacts. The kind that usually aren’t found along the Imperial Highway.”

She turned her head back to him and gave him a once over; he did seem to fit the description. “You’re an apostate?” She asked, her eyes lingering on his staff.

“Yes, and one long before the Mage-Templar war started,” He smiled again, this time it was a much fuller smile. He was handsome, she noted idly. He held up his hands, palms forward—staff held by his finger and thumb in a loose grip—in apparent disarmament, “You have nothing to fear from me.”

She trusted him less with that statement. Inevitably, it was usually said by someone intending harm. She wished she could cross her arms, but her bound one prevented such action, so she scowled instead.

He either didn’t notice or willfully ignored it. “Would you mind if I join you at your fire? I have some items to trade, if you are inclined, or stories if you are not.”

She did like stories; if he was truly a wanderer as he said, he would have some good ones. It wasn’t like she had much else to do, other than wait for Maharon, and she would not feel comfortable going back into her aravel knowing this stranger was out in the woods nearby. “Leave the staff outside of camp,” She said as a compromise. She’d be able to keep an eye on him this way, as well. “I don’t have anything in way of trade, so stories it will be. I was about to prepare midmeal. If you have supplies, you can join.”

For the first time the elf looked away from her, towards instead the ground at his feet. He paused, his eyes closed, before he nodded and turned to deposit his staff against a far tree. She watched him until he returned, this time stepping fully into the camp and settling on the fallen tree before the fire. Only then did she turn and grab her satchel, closing the door behind her with an elbow.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” He said amiably when she set her burden on the other side of the fire. He was watching her again, specifically her face. Being barefaced himself, she was probably the first Dalish he had gotten close enough to see vallaslin in any detail.

Unbidden, a smile tugged at her mouth, “Your name is Pride?”

“A fitting name, so say those who know me.” His smile seem sad for some reason, but then she blinked and it was gone. “May I inquire as to your origins?”

“I’m a Dalish elf, as you can see,” She waved her hand at her face, “specifically Clan Lavellan. My clanmate Maharon is traveling with me.” She went and retrieved her small caldron from where someone set to dry near the water tanks. She filled it from the barrel, and returned to the fire to set it to heat. She made certain to be on the opposite side of the fire from him.

“Oh?” He had his pack at his feet now, and was rummaging around inside. “Will he be joining us?”

“Perhaps,” She lied, “He’s out hunting right now.” She didn’t mention the damaged wheel of her aravel, nor the lack of halla. A city elf would not have any basis to know they were oddities. She didn’t want him to know she was alone for the next two days, maybe more. Adding the venison to the caldron, she began to dexterously cut the vegetables single handedly. She made certain to use her eating knife, and not the one low on her back, as she wasn’t certain whether she still had poison on that one. She couldn’t remember.

“I see,” He only said, so he must have believed her. He pulled out a small jar, and a wrapped cloth. “Salt and some bread, for my contributions. There is a small human village not too far from here, so it’s still relatively fresh.”

Despite her caution at the other elf—Solas—she felt herself perk up at that. She _loved_ bread, it was a rare treat and she always felt it was one of the few things humans were good for. The salt would also be helpful, since the tubers she had usually deadened the salt from the preserved meat.

A little more cheerfully now, as she was the type of person easily bribed by her favorite food, she finished cutting up the vegetables and adding them to the stock pot. She placed it on the metal hook, and pushed it over the fire. She then went and grabbed two more tubers, sticking them in her sling—damned thing might as well be useful somehow—and then fetched her bowl, with some more water.

Adding her newer acquisitions, but this time from the elf’s side of the fire, she plucked up the small jar he offered, and sniffed the contents. She made a pleased sound, “Garlic?”

“Yes, it saved space to have it added to my salt.” He smiled, and she tentatively returned it.

She shook the jar over the pot, adding the seasoning, and handed it back to the—to Solas. “ _Ma serranas_.”

“ _De da’rahn_ ,” He replied, much to her surprise.

“Oh! You speak Elvhen?”

He paused a second before his lips twisted wryly, “Yes. It was something I’ve picked up, in my time.”

“Have you had a lot of experience with the Dalish, then?” She turned to the pot, giving it an experimental stir, but it still hadn’t started to boil. She adjusted it a little further away from the center of the heat—a longer stew would improve the hard vegetables—and settled herself on the other end of the log.

“Not so much, no; I’ve mostly experience with _a_ Dalish than the clans themselves.” He was watching her again, his lips not quite a smile not quite a frown, “The Dalish clans I met did not care for me.”

“Hm,” she replied noncommittally. Dalish were always cautious of outsiders, herself not excluded, and she knew some clans were worse than others, so it was possible he had some previous unpleasant experiences with them. It wasn’t unheard of for members of the Dalish to take to wandering in their early adulthood, so he probably met one of those.

The stew started to boil after a while, so she gave it a stir, and took it off the metal hook completely before she added the oats, setting it on the ground close to the fireline to slow stew. She was settling back onto the log when he spoke again.

“Does it bother you?”

She blinked at him, before he nodded to her bound arm. “Not really,” It ached still, and felt somehow pressured, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

“How did you injure it?”

“I fell,” she said shortly, not comfortable with the line of questioning. She assumed her injury was because of a fall, but she couldn’t remember. He shifted suddenly on his seat, turning more fully to her and she gave a start in response to the unexpected movement. Bread or no, he was still a stranger.

He closed his eyes for a breath, but his face was stoic when he opened them. “I ask because I have a hand at healing. It would be remiss of me not to offer something as minor as healing a hurt arm, when you have kindly allowed me space at your camp.”

“I hardly know you,” She told him bluntly. “But from my experience, magic healing is difficult. Not something do because I agreed to give you lunch.” She thought of Maharon, the First of her clan, and the horrible period of time a few winters back when the Keeper decided he needed to learn healing. The clan had been extra careful to avoid injury during that time, more afraid of the cure than the injury. She had accidentally gotten a cut from a hunt, and—somehow—walked away with singed eyebrows.

“I am older than I look,” He said, raising his hands again, palms forward, “I have a lot of experience with magic. It wouldn’t be hard for me to do what I can to heal the hurt. I may not be Dalish, but I always try to help one of the People when I can.”

“Hm,” She narrowed her eyes at him, but he seemed earnest enough. While it was true, he was obviously not Dalish, he still was an elf, and she personally thought that the Dalish could improve by reaching out to their city brethren. It wasn’t like they could retake the Dales on their own, otherwise they would have by now. Seeing someone on the other side think the same was heartening. Still, she hardly could judge an elf’s character from fifteen minutes of conversation.

“How about this, I can look at your arm while telling you the story I promised. I will be finished with one as I finish with the other.” He said reasonably, when she didn’t say anything else.

She considered it a bit. “Two stories,” She bargained, “One now, and then if it is good enough, I may grant you to look at my arm. _After_ we have eaten.”

He didn’t say anything immediately, just dropped his face again, clasped his hands, and then finally nodded his ascent.

After a little awkward fumbling trying to scoop the stew into her bowl with one hand when it was done, she eventually relented and let Solas do it for them both as she cut the bread into portions. She tried to hide her excitement over the loaf—somehow it was _still soft_ , with a nice, flaky crust and oh, did it smell wonderful—but she wasn’t certain she succeeded if his slight smirk was anything to go by.

The bread was amazing, if she did say so, and the stew turned out fairly decently. The first story was a sweet one, about an old man who went to visit his wife’s grave once a year to deposit flowers, and clean her tombstone. Solas told her of how the war had caused him to be unable to do so, and how he and some companions had gone out and assisted him.

“That’s a sweet tale,” She sighed when it was done, “And yet also sorrowful. He must have been bonded to her, and it’s always sad to hear of one half of a bonded couple.” She happily finished sopping up her stew with the last of her bread.

His spoon paused on its way to his mouth, “Oh? What makes you so certain he was bonded?”

“You said the tombstone read a prayer for Falon’din, so it the widower must have been an Elf, if not Dalish himself. Maybe a second generation, or maybe his wife was.” She reasoned, taking her empty bowl the short distance to the water barrels. She cleaned it briskly as she continued, “And you also said the shrine seemed to have been there for a while. Once an elf is bonded, it’s forever. I met an elf once, whose bonded died shortly after the ceremony by an attack from the shemlens. Thirty five years, and he still talked of him as if he had just passed.”

Solas was staring into the remains of his still somewhat full bowl when she returned. The air continued to hold a slight chill, despite it being early afternoon, so she added more wood to the fire before she sat down.

“With tales like that, it is surprising that elves of this time bond at all.” He said softly.

“Oh, no. Bonding is such a wonderful thing,” She disagreed, “If someone bonds with you, you know they really _mean_ it. Life is short, why not make the most of it?”

She couldn’t really see his expression as his face was turned slightly away, only seeing his eyes closed and a muscle twitch in his jaw that showed he was probably twisting his lips again. But he then set his bowl down and turned back to her. His face was neutral when he did, so she may have been imagining it, but maybe not. Maybe that Dalish he spoken briefly of had wanted something more than he was willing to give. It was not her place to pry, so she did not comment on it.

“The meal is done, have you decided whether you’ll grace me with the privilege of healing your arm?”

“Ha!” A laugh was startled out of her at his dry tone, “When said like that, it does sound of a silly request.” She looked at him again, a smile quirking at her mouth as she dramatically drummed her fingers against her jaw. It had been more than an hour since he first appeared, and there had been no indication of anyone else in the woods. He had never even glanced back to where his staff was, and had placed it where it would be visible from her position. It was very doubtful he was a front man for an ambush group—slavers, or even just bandits, were never really patent people—and he himself had made no threatening movements since his arrival. His company was pleasant so far, so she could trust him this much.

“I suppose, if you insist,” She smiled, and then scooted over on the tree, giving him room on her left side to access the arm.

He stood and shifted over, to where she indicated. It was the first time he had stood when they were close enough to touch, and she suddenly realized how _big_ he was. Broad shouldered and easily as tall as a human, his chin would probably brush her crown if they stood next to each other. She was surprised, since city elves tended to be smaller than even the Dalish.

He settled quickly, and carefully reached for the belt that held her arm in place. “Have you heard of the Kirkwall Champion?” Solas began, as he began unbuckling.

“The one who started the mage rebellion?” She perked up.

“The very same,” he nodded, and the belt slipped free. He carefully unbent her arm, and she sucked in a breath as it sent a surprising amount of pins and needles from her fingers all the way up to her shoulder. He paused and watched her face a moment, but continued at her nod. He ran experimental fingers over the leather brace on her forearm, before he set her hand on his thigh to allow him to use both hands in unlatching it. “We met once, in my travels. Apparently, the Champion cannot stand ‘The Tale of the Champion.’”

“Ha! Really?” She grinned, “We had one copy in my clan, and it was a popular trade item. I had to pay three fennec furs to get it, myself.”

“Was that the going rate?” He pulled the loosened brace off, revealing the wrapped appendage under. He lifted her hand by her wrist delicately enough it didn’t irritate the previous sting, and used the other to unwind it. He was left handed, she noted idely. And had nice long fingers, the kind which would be best suited to play an instrument or craft something delicate.

“As I got a new hunting knife, and a pair of gloves in trade when I was done, I’d say it was a deal. So you really met the Champion?”

“For a brief time our paths crossed, yes. Asked me if I had read the book, then gave me a look of utter disappointment when I confirmed. The Champion asked which edition, and then refused to talk to me again when I said it was the first.” He smiled at the memory, but it faded as he finally removed the last of the bandages.

She looked as well, and saw, weirdly, another layer of bindings. These were much higher quality, a very fine weave silk instead of the cotton previous, and they looked to be covered in… runes? They seemed to be runes, though she didn’t know what they were for. When he pulled the mitten free, the bandages were even wrapped around her fingers, flowing down from there to around and well past her elbow. Neither of them commented on the fact his story tapered off at the revelation, and did not resume.

She had no idea the bindings were under her bandages, had no idea where they’d even come from, and the look on his face was not promising. However, she really didn’t want to let _him_ know that _she_ didn’t know, and so she bit her tongue as he hummed low in his throat. “The Binding… Dagna, surely… a containment,” he said, soft enough she was certain he didn’t mean to say it aloud. Who, or what, was a Dagna?

Solas ran his fingers lightly over the pattern, his other hand still cradling her wrist, and the runes glowed slightly under his touch. Her free hand clenched, although the contact hadn’t hurt. She was just really, really confused as to _why the hell was her arm bound in magic_ —

Then he lifted the wrappings from her wrist to begin unraveling, and green light burst forth. And with the light, pain.

She thrashed, yanking desperately but he held fast to her hand, her arm an inferno of light and suffering. She was shrieking, and she fell to her back off the log inelegantly, but she didn’t care. She clawed at her wrist, as if to try and severe it, but blackness started to creep into her mind as she could have sworn he was calling her _vhenan_ …

**XX**

She came to consciousness in bits and pieces. She was… lying on the ground? She lolled her head around, as more input came to her. Her legs were elevated, her back was to the dirt and there was a fire nearby. Her left hand was… held?

Her eyes cracked open to see a strange elf over her, looking down as he held her left hand in both of his.

With a much weaker scream than anticipated, she scrambled away, yanking her arm free of his startled grasp. _Who_ by Elgar’nan’s flaming fury is _that_? He didn’t stop her as she scrambled away, just stuttered then called her name—how did he know her name?

“What—who—where—” She stammered, her voice hoarse, looking around her. Her left arm hung uselessly, and her right flung out for balance as she stood too quickly and stumbled. She was in a clearing, there was an aravel—hers? That’s right, she was on the way to the Conclave. Where was Maharon?! He was supposed to be with her!

“Stay back,” She hissed, as the strange bald-headed elf made to reach for her. She stumbled a few extra steps away, and drew the dagger that was helpfully at her lower back. “You just—stay—who are you?”

“Please,” He said, and his face showed far more concern and hurt than she would have expected from a stranger. How did he get into her camp, anyway? “You are injured, your arm. I was helping and you fell. Do you really not remember?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” She said decisively. She held her blade at the ready, even though she trembled from fear and nerves.

He clenched his eyes shut, and heaved a breath so powerfully she could have sworn the fire dimmed in response. “You told me you were on the way to the Conclave of the humans to spy,” he began, voice heavy, and she started at the truth. Certainly, she would never trust him to tell him _that_ , some strange elf from the city, right? “You were traveling with your clanmate, who is the First of your clan. You said he was out hunting. I came here this morning, and we had lunch before I offered to try and heal your arm. Then you fell.”

Her arm dropped without her conscious thought, her chest heaving for breath. She was so confused, and that terrified her; she remembered that she was on the way to the Conclave with Maharon, but had no recollection of where Maharon was, nor of the conversation she apparently had with this stranger who knew too much. And her arm, oh Creators, her left arm was hanging without her control, a silken bandage slowly unraveling as it swayed with her movements. It did not look healthy at all. She had always been slender, as were all elves, but this—this was emaciated. The bones could be individually seen through the layer of her skin. Further, the flesh was blackened, as if severely burned but there wasn’t the cracking of dried skin from such heat. Her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears at the harsh emotions.

“What’s wrong with my arm?” Her voice broke as she stared at it. She didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad one that she couldn’t feel anything from the limb but weird tingles. “Why can’t I remember what happened to it?”

“I was examining it,” He said, and when she looked up again he was much closer than before. She jerked, her dagger coming back up instinctually the threaten his throat; he was a lot taller than she expected an elf to be. He didn’t step closer, his face adopting a deeper pained expression, but her confidence in herself had mostly fled; what good was a maimed elf with one paltry dagger against someone over a head taller and unknown skill?

“Who are you? Are you a healer? A mage?” Tears fell down her eyes as her voice shook, “How do I know that you’re not responsible for this?”

“My name is Solas,” he said, his own voice cracking, “I am a mage. I did not bind your arm. I am trying to help you, but I have to get close to do so. Please, let me help you.”

She trembled as she watched those sad, strangely violet eyes of his. She didn’t know him, or why he was looking at her like that. She didn’t know what was going on, she had no idea what had happened, and she was so scared, but what choice did she have? The injury didn’t seem to be the work of an hour, or even a full day. Maharon was missing, and she couldn’t recall what had happened to him but she highly doubted the clumsy oaf was out _hunting_. She couldn’t recall how she came to this place, or even how long she had been gone from her clan. Everything was jumbled and nothing made sense, but she knew something was very, very wrong. She was probably finished either way.

Her knife fell from lax fingers as her arm fell to her side once more, a hopelessness settling on her shoulders, making them tremble with silent sobs. She let herself be led back to the fallen log, and couldn’t be bothered to flinch when he settled next to her notably close. She watched with mild horror as he finished unraveling the silken bandage with the unusual pattern, showing her entire arm was that same macabre appearance.

When the last bandage fell away from her palm, she found something even more horrifying than it’s decay.

A bright green light seemed to emanate from her palm. It softly arched, flickered, and pulsed on it’s own. Further, the light seemed to be traveling down her arm, leaving bright green cracks in her skin behind. If she watched, she could almost see the progression. It was currently past her wrist.

She must had made a noise, because the elf—Solas—crooned, telling her that he would take care of this, that it would be ok. He placed his hand over the strange light, and with a strange pulling sensation—the light rescinded to a mere glimmer in the center of her palm.

Solas then continued his examination, curled low over her arm, as his hands glowed in blue-white light. His hands crept higher and higher on her emaciated arm, and as it did his face crumbled further and further until his hand rested on her collarbone, long fingers brushing against her neck through her high collar. He looked as devastated as she felt.

“It’s,” He didn’t even try to hide the wobble in his voice, “It’s spread too far. The damage, I can’t—” His eyes held such heartbreak when he looked at her, that she suddenly _knew_ they had known one another. She couldn’t remember it, but she knew, and that made it so much worse. A empty echo in her chest of the perceived loss, the crawling terror of unknowing, of wondering how she came to be like this, of missing fragments of her life. How much was she missing? Days? Weeks? ...Years?

He seemed to lose the strength keeping upright, hunching forward, his head bowed low before her. “ _Ir abelas, ir abelas, ir abelas_ …” He chanted, voice wavering.

Absurdly, she found surprise, “Oh. You speak Elven?”

Solas gave what seemed to be a mix between a laugh, a choked breath, and a sob before he straightened to look at her again, tears visibly streaming down his face.

His hands came up to grip at her head, first lightly brushing at her hair before settling against her temples. “I can fix this, at least.” His fingers moved from her temples, crawling slowly through her hair in a strangely pleasant sensation, causing her eyes to close. He traced a sort of pattern, his fingers leaving a warm trail behind.

It was a strange sensation; it felt almost as if there was a weaving light, slowly creeping over her mind. His fingers left trails, and those trails expanded, flowing, down unknown paths through her, around her, netting over her. She felt contained, but not trapped, as the power mapped her. The warmth found a spot she didn’t know was there, something she couldn’t describe what it was but knew that it was there because it wasn’t, and the power wrapped around that too, focusing, brightening.

She didn’t sense him get closer to her, until his warm breath caressed her ear. “Remember.”

And she did.

Three years came rushing back in an instant, all the joy, all the sorrow, all the fear, all the worry, all the loneliness and the companionship. It came at different moments, disjointed; the fear but resolution as she marched out of Haven to face what she had assumed to be certain death, the loving joy as she and Solas made their way to Crestwood hand in hand where she had been certain he’d offer to bond with her properly, the sick feeling as she came upon Samson’s lair and the Tranquil who decided to kill himself out of loyalty, the horror at the Red Lyrium infested future of Redcliffe, the sheer agony upon reading the letter telling her about the extinction of her clan, her confusion as she woke up in a snow drift in the middle of a valley with her left arm bound to her chest, and the relief at reading a mimicry letter from a man years dead. It all flooded her, and she thrashed, her heart convulsing in her chest as she gasped and choked.

Solas, _her_ _Vhenan_ , gripped her tightly in his arms, his face buried in her hair as he whispered endearments and soothing words she couldn’t understand as she struggled to absorb everything. Bile began to raise up in her throat, and struggled a bit more purposefully, only just managed to free herself enough to vomit on what she vaguely hoped was the ground. She faintly felt hands pulling back her hair, and that just sent another strong wave of emotion—sorrow, longing, joy, fear—rush through her as tears mixed with snot and spittle. Somehow, magic most likely, Solas produced a bowl of water and she coughed and gagged through it until she felt somewhat more herself.

Eventually Solas wrapped an arm around her when her lunch—which had only had a little time to digest—finished its return trip, and he pulled her away from the mess entirely. He kept pulling until they laid on the ground together, where he used his tunic to finish cleaning her face.

“Solas, _ma sa’lath,_ ” she rasped, her voice weak, fingers of her one hand grasping his shirt over his pounding heart, “You came back.” Of all things—the flood of memories and emotions, the shock of having been basically an unknowing invalid for more than a year, the horror state of her arm and the knowledge, acceptance, that it was killing her—she was most enraptured with Solas, her _vhenan_ , having come back to her.

“ _Ir abelas, Vhenan_ ,” He moaned back to her, clutching her tightly. “I came too late, far too late.”

“You came back,” She said again, “That’s what matters.”

He gave a great, gasping breath, holding her close to his chest in a crushing grip. “This is my fault. This is all my fault. You shouldn’t be the one to pay for my mistakes.”

“It’s ok,” She tried to sooth, “I kind of figured I’d be for an early grave after the whole ‘touched by a god’ thing.” Her fate had been sealed the moment she grabbed that orb, she knew. There never was a happy ending for when gods interfered with mortals, regardless of the religion in question.

He made a sound more like a dying animal than a man, and held her all the tighter. He let loose a string of elvhen that was frankly stunning, too archaic and rabid for her to understand. He was right; he told Sera that they need not understand the words to understand the rhythm, and as he spoke her heart broke anew.

“I’m sorry, _Vhenan_ ,” she said when he seemed to run out of steam, sobbing into her shoulder, “I’m sorry I’m going to leave you alone.”

“ _Ar lath ma, Vhenan,_ ” He said thickly, heaving heavy breaths. Solas pulled back just enough to kiss her forehead, her eyes, the tear stains on her cheeks, before settling on her lips, “ _Ar lath ma, shivasa sa’vhenan._ I will _never_ forget you.”

He kissed her again, and she could taste his tears and hers and she couldn’t quite feel it as his hand gripped the anchor, but she felt the tug and then—

She didn’t feel anything at all. 

**XXXXX**

Thanks to FenxShiral for the elvhen.

Aravel: land ships  
Shemlen: quicklings, refers specifically to humans when said by the Dalish.  
Halam’shivanas: the sweet sacrifice of duty.  
Da’len: child  
Ma Serranas: my thanks  
De da’rahn: it’s nothing (you’re welcome equivalent)  
Ir abelas: I’m sorry.  
Vhenan: My heart.  
Ma sa’lath: my one love  
Ar lath ma: I love you.  
Sa’vhenan: my one heart.  
Shivasa; I swear (to-something) forever.


End file.
